That Sinking Feeling
by BoundInSkin
Summary: It's a normal day at the pool, until a certain Canadian boy  who can't swim  falls into the water. Enter Gilbert, the world's most reluctant hero. PruCan multi-chapter, rated for strong language.
1. Of Swimming and Sinking

**Just a regular day at the swimming baths… well, almost. I really should be working on my story Mistletoe Kisses, but in my first aid class today we were learning about life-saving, and this one-shot just popped into my head. Sorry for going into way too much detail about Matthew's back-story, for the overall messiness of the plot, and for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Also, some of the phrases I use might be different because I'm from England, so if it's hard to understand please let me know. Thankyou for reading, please review, and I hope you enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

Matthew Jones-Kirkland sat at the edge of the swimming pool, letting his pale feet dangle in the warm water, and tried not to look too jealous as his brother Alfred executed yet another perfect dive. Al rushed to the surface, grinning like an excited puppy, and waved cheerily at Matthew. "How was that one?" he called out, taking a few effortless strokes towards his brother. The younger boy smiled politely for what felt like the hundredth time, and replied, "It was great, Al."

His brother barely acknowledged the reply, choosing instead to scramble up the ladder that extended from the water. "I'm going to try a double flip next!" he yelled, shaking his dark blonde hair and sending a shower of water droplets all over Matthew, before hurrying off towards the high diving board. The younger teenager wiped his face with a sigh and watched with envious eyes as Alfred scaled the ladder once more.

At that moment he would have given anything to be able to join his brother at the top of that platform, to dive as gracefully as a swan into the clear blue water. Unfortunately, Matthew couldn't swim.

Their influential father, Arthur Kirkland, hadn't intended to have children in his twenties. What was supposed to be a meaningless fling turned into something far more serious when his girlfriend discovered she was pregnant. Arthur, a high-profile young lawyer with an already impressive track record, knew that such a scandal could wreck his entire career. So he had married the girl, and nine months later Alfred was born.

From piecing together bits of information from both his father and his mother, Matthew had come to the conclusion that she was rather more interested in him than he was in her. Arthur had been planning a divorce, he had discovered, when his wife announced that she was pregnant once more. The younger boy suspected it was a last-ditch attempt to convince the British man to stay. It didn't work. Arthur, ever the gentleman, stayed with his wife until Matthew was born, then divorced her as quickly as possible.

Their mother, heart-broken, had fled back to Canada, where she had lived as a child, taking baby Matthew with her. He had been raised amongst dense, sweet-smelling pines and dusty forests, whereas his brother (older by just one year) had grown up on the fast-paced streets of London, England. At Arthur's insistence, the boys had met each other every Christmas and at each of their birthdays.

And now, with Matthew's grandmother ill in hospital, his mother had sent him away to stay with Alfred for the summer. The older boy had been thrilled, and insisted on dragging Matthew down to the swimming baths as soon as he had unpacked to show off his diving skills, despite the Canadian boy's throbbing headache and ferocious jet lag.

Matthew dragged a toe across the surface of the water, watching the ripples dance away from his foot. He'd never realised how much he was missing out on, not being able to swim. His mother was terrified of large expanses of water (her father had drowned in a boating accident when she was a teenager) and had insisted that Matthew stay as far away from them as possible. He looked up as Alfred performed yet another smooth dive, this one incorporating a double somersault, and felt a pang of loss in his chest.

I guess I've always been quite sheltered, he thought to himself. The area where they lived in Canada was very sparsely populated, and he spent more time alone in the forest than socialising with other people. Alfred, on the other hand, growing up in the heart of the city (and thanks to his father's busy working schedule, often alone) seemed to have an endless torrent of friends and hobbies. Matthew rubbed his head, cursing the time difference and his exhaustion.

On the other side of the pool, Gilbert Beildshcmidt was wondering aloud why ugly French people were so goddam irresistible to women. He glared not-so-subtly at Francis, his best friend, who merely smirked in response and let his hand drift a little lower on the back of the girl he was currently seducing. Gilbert hadn't bothered learning her name. He doubted Francis had, either.

He sighed and turned away from the vomit-making scene. It wasn't that he was jealous of the French boy. In fact, he was more envious of the girl. Stealing all his best friend's attention, laughing at his unfunny jokes, making him put on that ridiculously heavy accent. Gilbert had seen it all hundreds of times before, and it was getting tedious.

A few feet away the third member of their trio, the permanently cheerful Antonio, was laughing as a small dark-haired teenager attempted to drown him. The would-be murderer in question was Romano, a permanently angry Italian who (for some unknown reason) Antonio was infatuated with. Gilbert couldn't go within two metres of the stupid squirt without wanting to punch him. The German boy growled angrily and turned away, swimming with strong, powerful strokes across the pool.

Why had he let those idiots convince him to come here in the first place? He'd thought they would have fun, make trouble, just like the old days. Instead, both Francis and Antonio were too busy flirting to even speak to him. Gilbert reached the other side of the pool and pulled himself up out of the water, feeling both annoyed and somewhat lonely.

Matthew looked up as a boy emerged from the water a few metres away from him. The guy was probably a year or so older than he was, with pure white hair and ruby red eyes that must mean he was albino. Matthew gawked at him for a few seconds before he realised that he was being incredibly rude, and stared back at his feet with a slight blush.

It wasn't just that the boy was albino (even though Matthew had never actually seen an albino person in real life before). It was more to do with the fact that he was incredibly handsome, and dressed only in a pair of scarlet swimming trunks. Matthew was so busy determinedly not staring at the boy that he didn't notice the large figure collide with his back until it was too late…

Gilbert ran a hand through his dripping hair and leant back on his hands. Screw friends, he thought. Who needs them, anyway? Suddenly there was a huge splash to his left and he looked up, surprised. The blond boy who Gilbert had dimly noticed sitting on the edge of the pool had entered the water in a dramatic fashion. "Anyone can make a splash, asshole," Gilbert muttered, watching with disdain.

But after a few seconds, when the boy still hadn't emerged and the bubbles were starting to clear, he realised that the kid hadn't been showing off. The albino peered down into the pool and through the cloudy water saw a dim figure slowly sinking towards the bottom.

Before Matthew could really register that he was falling, he had splashed into the water. It's colder than I thought, some part of his brain said calmly, before full-on panic mode kicked in. He lashed out frantically with his entire body, but no matter how hard he struggled, he didn't get any closer to the surface. It was a completely unfamiliar situation. The water stung his eyes, and with the added disadvantage of not having his glasses on, he couldn't see a thing. Oh god, Matthew thought, I'm going to die.

Gilbert swallowed and looked around frantically, waiting for someone else to notice. The other inhabitants of the pool seemed oblivious. They went on swimming, splashing and flirting as if nothing had happened. "Come on," the German boy muttered, "I can't do anything. I'm no hero."

But soon it became obvious that if he didn't do something, no one would. "For fucks sake," the reluctant hero growled, disgusted with humanity, and dived back into the water.

The body was almost at the bottom by the time Gilbert reached it. He grimaced, the air slowly seeping out of his lungs, and wrapped his arms around the boy. Up close he could see that the kid was older than he'd realised, perhaps only a year or so younger than the albino himself, and weirdly… attractive.

His eyes were closed, but he had soft blonde hair, floating like a halo around his head, and his features were delicate and pretty. Not the time or place, Gilbert reprimanded himself, and kicked off hard from the bottom of the pool, dragging the boy upwards.

Gasping and struggling with the extra weight, the German boy reached the surface. He took a huge gulp of air, shifted the kid so he was holding him gently around the chest, and, trying to ignore the pain spreading through his arms, swam to the side of the pool. When he reached it he became aware of the people huddled around, watching him with shocked expressions.

One of them, a blonde boy in a pair of American flag trunks, yelled something out and tugged the limp body out of Gilbert's arms. The boy was carefully laid out on the side of the pool and the crowd of people surrounded him, blocking him from view. Coughing and tired, Gilbert yanked himself up out of the water. Being a hero was so overrated.

It was a few seconds before he could breathe normally again. His arms ached, and his eyes were stinging from the chlorine. Stupid ungrateful people, he thought bitterly to himself, I save him, and this is the thanks I get? I can't even see the damn kid! Fired up with rage and scorn, the albino boy shoved his way through the crowd of people and reached the middle, where the guy in the flag trunks was crouched worriedly over the blonde kid's body. He still wasn't moving.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then- "Come on! Doesn't anyone know CPR?" Gilbert folded his arms angrily. Before anything happened, however, the unconscious boy's pale chest twitched, and suddenly he was coughing violently. The loud, wracking hacks subsided, and the boy's eyelids flickered open.

He had, Gilbert grudgingly admitted, pretty eyes. Really fucking pretty eyes. Kind of pale violet, like those forget-me-not flowers that grew in the park. The boy shivered, sat up, and said uncertainly, "Alfred?" Gilbert snorted scornfully and turned away, elbowing his way through the people once more.

The albino boy stalked away towards the changing rooms. Did no one have any manners any more? He'd fucking saved a drowning boy, and no one even thanked him. Ungrateful fuckers.

But when he was a few metres away from the changing rooms, a voice from behind him called out, "Wait!" Gilbert narrowed his red eyes and looked back over his shoulder, to come face to face with none other than the drowning boy. He was even prettier when he wasn't dying. "I- Thankyou," the blonde said breathlessly, "Thankyou so much. You- you saved my life."

Gilbert blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I'm Matthew," the boy continued. He seemed nervous. "I- Gilbert," the albino replied. A shy, hesitant smile spread over Matthew's face. "Seeing as you saved me from drowning," he said bashfully, staring at his feet, "Do you- I mean, can I buy you a drink?" Timid, terrified, beautiful violet eyes lifted to stare into Gilbert's own. The albino thought for a few long, tense moments. Then he grinned wolfishly, and threw an arm around the Canadian's bare shoulders.

"It's the least you can do."

**Not so happy with the ending… Thankyou for reading! Reviews are always appreciated. **


	2. Of Coffee and Canadians

**A massive thankyou to everyone who has reviewed or subscribed to this story, it really does mean so much to me. Thanks also for putting up with the huge wait between the first chapter and this one: I've been ill, had masses of tests, and seriously injured my wrist. It's healing, but slowly. As always, I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers. **

The swimming pool café was small, grubby and almost deserted, the only other customers a tired-looking young mother with a screaming toddler. Gilbert glanced around the room, taking in the torn plastic chair covers, the faded posters on the walls advertising clubs that had long since finished and the teenager behind the desk with badly dyed black hair and too much eyeliner.

Then his eyes landed on Matthew, who was stood at the counter with a faint blush darkening his cheeks, hands rummaging through his pockets. Gilbert hid a smile and idly rubbed his name into the dust that coated the table. Admittedly this wasn't the sort of establishment he'd imagined when the boy had suggested a drink, but to be honest the German teenager wasn't that fussy. As long as someone else was paying, of course.

Speaking of which, Matthew seemed to be having some trouble. After a few seconds, beginning to get impatient, Gilbert stood up and wandered over to him. The problem was immediately obvious. The boy was pulling notes out of his pockets with a sort of quiet desperation, but none of them were English.

Gilbert squinted at the foreign money and read the word, "Canada," at the top. He looked at Matthew's embarrassed expression. Canadian, huh? Well, that explained the accent.

In the next few seconds, a historical event took place. Gilbert Beilschmidt, notorious scrounger, who took money out of his friend's pockets and his brother's bedroom, reached into his pocket and tugged out a crumpled five-pound note, which he placed on the counter. Matthew gave him a flustered but grateful smile and picked up the tray on with their drinks were balanced. "Thanks," he said quietly, "I haven't got round to changing my money yet." Gilbert shrugged and muttered, "It doesn't matter."

Then he paused, shell-shocked, and reached up to tug a lock of white hair down in front of his eyes. It looked like his. He felt his chest, his face, his crotch… yep, that was _definitely_ his. So why on earth had he given that fiver for the food, despite having no money left for the bus home, despite Matthew having offered to pay, despite being the least generous person he knew? He peered at the other teenager. Who was this Canadian, and why was he having such a strange effect on him?

"Are you alright?" Matthew said, looking vaguely concerned. Gilbert thought back through the last few seconds, remembered how he'd practically felt himself up, and sat down as quickly as possible. "I'm fine," he said, keen to change the subject, "So, you're Canadian, huh?" The kid nodded earnestly and took a sip of his coffee. He pulled a face.

Gilbert took a gulp from his own cup. The boiling liquid rushed down his throat, scalding the tender flesh, and before he could stop himself the albino teenager had spat it out all over the table.

Matthew blinked, obviously taken aback. Then a smile crept onto his face, which soon evolved into a full-blown laugh. "I know it's bad," he said through his chuckles, "But is it really that awful?" Gilbert wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. "It tasted like a cross between water and dog crap." He said firmly, to cover up the fact that he was more than a little embarrassed. Matthew stopped giggling and raised one eyebrow, a smirk tugging on the corners of his mouth. "So you've tasted dog crap, have you?" he asked sweetly. If anyone else had said that Gilbert would have sworn revenge and probably embarked on a massive prank plot involving water guns, hair gel and seventy-two stuffed llamas (he tended to get carried away) but for some reason, all Matthew's teasing provoked was a warm feeling in his chest.

That's weird, Gilbert thought, I'm not even wearing a vest today. Maybe the air conditioner wasn't turned on. Actually, judging by the state of this place, there probably was no air conditioner… Completely distracted by his own random musings, Gilbert turned around and started to inspect the café with his eyes, looking for a tell tale vent or machine. The woman with the toddler gave him a look that suggested he shouldn't be allowed out alone.

In fact, Gilbert was so distracted by the sudden warmth that had crept over his body that he didn't notice a small group of people enter the café. Matthew, however, sipping at the horrendous coffee and smiling at the albino boy's strange behaviour, did. He tensed a little as the crowd of teenagers approached their table. On of them, a tall boy with long, slightly damp blonde hair and a smirk, reached over and tapped Gilbert on the shoulder. The tanned brunette behind him with the happy green eyes gave Matthew a friendly smile.

Gilbert whirled around and blinked at Francis and Antonio. A few feet away from them, his trademark scowl currently directed at the grubby floor, Romano was standing with his arms folded. "The horror," Francis wailed, slipping into the seat beside Matthew (who surreptitiously inched away from him and his dramatically flailing arms), "Of discovering that our dear ami had deserted us!" Gilbert snorted, looking more than a little irritated, and replied, "You do it every time you see a hot girl! Or guy, for that matter. Or dog…"

Why did his friends have to be so relentlessly nosy? Why couldn't they just leave him in peace with the mysterious Canadian for one fucking minute? Francis pouted and snapped, "I only date humans, imbécile." Antonio flopped into position on the last seat at the table, and said cheerfully, "But you don't really date them. You just have sex with them!"

Matthew tried to slip away from the table unnoticed, and three pairs of eyes (one red, one green and one blue) glanced at him. He blushed, wondering how the hell he'd got himself into this situation. When Alfred had dragged him to the pool he'd expected a quiet, boring hour of watching his brother dive, not to be dragged into a conversation about sex with some random strangers.

Even if one of them was, admittedly, incredibly attractive (and kind, Matthew thought, remembering how Gilbert had paid for the drinks as if it was nothing). "Who is this, Gilbert?" the blonde one purred, shifting his chair a little closer to drape an arm around the Canadian boy's shoulder.

Gilbert glared at his friend and tried to resist the urge to punch him. "If you'd been paying more attention," he said through gritted teeth, "You would know." Francis ignored him, choosing instead to stare thoughtfully at Matthew (who was, by now, intensely uncomfortable). Meanwhile, Antonio chirped to Romano, "Come and sit down."

The Italian boy scowled at him and snapped, "With the pervert and the freak? No way, bastard." Francis tapped his chin in a way he thought made him look intelligent. "I recognise you from somewhere, chéri," he murmured.

At that moment, with impeccable timing as always, Alfred strode into the café. Matthew sank down into his seat, trying in vain to become invisible. It didn't matter, however, as his brother's eyes were firmly fixed on Gilbert's blond friend. "It's you!" Alfred gasped. Francis looked over his shoulder and winced slightly.

"Ah," he muttered, "Now I remember."

**The plot thickens… **

**Next chapter will be longer, and hopefully not as poorly written as this one is. Please review, and any suggestions for pairings will be gratefully recieved!**


	3. Of Rain and Revelations

**I promised you a longer chapter, and I've given you a shorter one... Sorry! I swear they shrink when you upload them. Many thanks to everyone who has subscribed/reviewed this story. Once again, apologies for any spelling or grammar mistakes. Please review, let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions for future chapters I would love to hear them. I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.**

Matthew's eyes darted from his brother's face, where an expression of fear and anger was forming, to Francis, who looked… guilty? What on earth was going on? There was obviously some furious memory bubbling away under the surface here, but he was lost as to what had happened between the two teenagers.

Matthew glanced at Gilbert, who looked just as confused as he felt. But by now his brother was striding towards their table, and even as Matthew opened his mouth to explain that he was just about to leave Alfred roared, "Get away from my brother, you bastard!"

Francis stumbled to his feet, looking intensely uncomfortable, and muttered, "I think it is time for my departure." His dark blue eyes landed for a moment on Matthew's face, and a split-second later a fist collided with his jaw. The French boy staggered backwards, clutching his chin, and Alfred rubbed his knuckles with an expression of grim satisfaction.

"Alfred!" Matthew gasped, astounded by his brother's uncharacteristic display of violence. "Are you insane?" Francis growled, rubbing his jaw. A dark pink stain was spreading over his pale skin.

At that moment Antonio stood up, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder (the blonde boy shrugged him off, irritated) and another on Francis'. "I think," he said, with a slightly dimmer version of his usual mega-watt smile, "You have some explaining to do, si?"

Alfred folded his arms, a somewhat childish expression of extreme dislike on his face, but before he could reply a loud buzzing noise filled the air. He shot one last dirty look at Francis before pulling a shiny silver phone out of his pocket, which he held up to his ear.

"Hello?" he said, anger still clouding his voice, "Oh, hi, _Dad_." With the last word his eyes flickered to Francis again, who blushed faintly and picked up his bag. But before he could escape Alfred's arm shot out and grabbed hold of the French boy's wrist.

"Yes," he growled into the phone, "Half an hour. No. What? Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. Bye, Dad. No, bye."

He hung up, and Matthew decided that if he didn't intervene this day would just get even weirder. "Alfred," the Canadian boy said quietly, "What's going on?" His brother's fingers tightened around Francis' wrist and the other teenager winced as nails dug into his skin.

"This… piece of shit," Alfred hissed, "Made out with our **Dad**."

Gilbert choked on his foul tasting coffee and started to cough violently, spluttering liquid all over the table for the second time that day. Matthew patted him absent-mindedly on the back, a million thoughts whirling through his baffled, sleep-deprived brain. Was their father gay? What was he doing kissing a boy who couldn't be more than a couple of years older than his own sons? How had this absurd situation started? How did Alfred find out?

"Fuck this," his brother suddenly muttered, and shoved Francis away from him. "Come on Matthew, we're going home," Alfred finished, treating the French teenager to one last glare before he stormed out of the café. Francis stared sourly after him, rubbing his wrist. Matthew glanced at Gilbert, who was still red-faced and gasping from his choking incident, and muttered a small, "Sorry," before he pushed his chair back and hurried after his brother.

God, Matthew thought as he trailed down the street after Alfred (who was marching ahead, shoulders hunched forward and an almost visible aura of anger surrounding him), what a crazy afternoon. First he nearly drowned, next an absurdly attractive albino bought him coffee, and then he discovered that his own father was not only gay (well, probably) but also interested in teenage boys.

If all this had happened in just one day, what would the rest of the summer hold? To top it all off, it was raining.

The Canadian boy tugged the hood of his sweatshirt a little further down over his face as water poured from the bleak grey sky. All he wanted was a long, hot shower, some form of chocolate, and the comfort of Arthur's spare bed. An image of Gilbert swam into his mind, the soft smile he had given Matthew as he paid for the drinks, but the Canadian teenager shook it away. No matter how nice he had been, his friends were far too stressful to allow any further contact. Well, that's what Matthew thought. The boy in question, however, had other ideas.

"Matthew!" a voice called out. The Canadian boy glanced back over his shoulder, pushing a long strand of damp hair out of his eyes, to see a pale figure streaking down the road towards him. "Wait!" Gilbert yelled again, and Matthew paused, torn between a mixture of exhaustion, irritation at the albino's perseverance, and… was that hope, fluttering in his chest?

Gilbert jogged closer, grinning at him through eyes darkened to maroon by the dark sky, and said a little breathlessly, "Look, I'm sorry about what happened back there. I had no idea all that crap was going to come up." Matthew shrugged, looking at Alfred's retreating back. "It's not your fault," he said quietly to the German boy, "Sorry, but I've really got to go."

He began to walk away, but stopped when a hand grabbed his forearm. "At least give me your number," Gilbert begged. Then he blinked to himself, surprised. That hadn't sounded so desperate and pathetic in his head. "I don't have anything to write on," Matthew replied helplessly. If he lost sight of Alfred he'd never find his way back to Arthur's. Gilbert was digging in his pockets. He pulled out a snapped biro and muttered, "Me neither. Er… I know! Write on my hand!"

Matthew tore his eyes away from his brother's shape in the distance and glanced at the other teenager, wondering if he was joking. Gilbert just looked pleased, and perhaps a little bit nervous. He handed Matthew the pen and the Canadian boy gently took hold of Gilbert's hand. The skin was soft, cold and very pale, and the contact sent a shiver down Matthew's spine. He scribbled down his mobile number and gave his new friend one last sad smile before jogging away after his brother.

Gilbert grinned to himself as he wandered down the road. All in all, not such a bad day. He'd been a kick-ass hero at the pool, Franny had got punched in the face (yeah, they were friends, but it was still funny) and the cutest kid he'd ever seen had given him his number. Even the steady fall of the rain felt like an old friend, cool and reassuring.

By the time Gilbert got to his house, shaking water droplets out of his hair and fumbling in his bag for the key, he felt like singing or doing something equally dramatic and teen-movie-ish. But then he looked down at his hand and his good mood evaporated. The rain, the stupid fucking rain, had turned Matthew's spindly writing into a smudgy grey blur on Gilbert's skin. Those sacred numbers had all either melted into each other, or washed away completely.

Well, crap.

**Thankyou for reading, and please, please review!**


	4. Of Parents and Padlocks

**It's been a long time. All I can do is apologise. I could make excuses (I've had end of year exams, and family business, and a slightly traumatic experience involving a pineapple) but it wouldn't really make any difference. So, I'm really sorry, and better late than never, right? As always, I apologise for any spelling/grammar or continuity errors. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia Axis Powers characters.**

For a guy who seemed to exist entirely on hamburgers, milkshakes and soda, Alfred could walk surprisingly fast. Matthew wondered, as he dashed down the unfamiliar street after his brother, if there was an undiscovered link between playing video games (which Al did for hours) and muscle mass (which he seemed to have plenty of). Maybe Matthew should have persuaded his Mom to buy him that X-box after all…

He stumbled to a halt, then, as he realised that he was seriously considering the lunatic idea as a valid hypothesis. For a moment he'd been thinking of sending a petition to the government, ordering them to pay for experimentation facilities and test subjects and an economic scheme to bring video games to every home.

The Olympic Games were being held in London next year, so England would need all the muscle it could get… _Oh dear_, Matthew sighed to himself, _I'm going crazy._ _I never even got to watch The Godfather 2. Do they have TV's in psychiatric hospitals? _

He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, and some distant part of his brain noted with a touch of panic that Alfred had just turned the corner and vanished out of sight.

_Pull yourself together_, Matthew told himself sternly, _Now is not the time to be pondering your impending insanity! _

Luckily for his brother, Alfred wasn't very careful with his keys. In fact, it would take all of his fingers, all of his toes and a few of someone else's to count how many times they had been lost, run over, dropped into a river or accidentally swallowed.

As a result, they were worn and blunt, and had to be jabbed into the lock, turned exactly 33 degrees to the right, wiggled about, taken out, sworn at and shoved in again before they would actually open the front door to his house. When Matthew jogged up the path (a little out of breath, and wishing he hadn't swallowed so much of the swimming pool water) Alfred seemed to be stuck on the swearing part.

"Fucking bugger bumfuck!" Alfred screeched as Matthew approached. He threw the keys down onto the floor, stomped his foot, and leant his forehead against the wall.

His eyes were closed. Matthew tentatively stepped forward (_perhaps everyone in England is mad? Maybe the rain acts as some kind of water torture, turning everyone it falls on slowly insane?)_ picked up the slightly wet keys, gently pushed them into the lock, and turned them. The door opened smoothly.

"Mattie…" Alfred murmured, his tone low and awe-struck, "You- You've got magic powers, bro." Matthew noted with the barest hint of annoyance that his supposed supernatural abilities didn't stop his brother from shoving past him quite rudely on his way into the hall.

He followed him inside, closing the door gently behind him. The taller boy strode off into to kitchen, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the carpet, and slammed the door.

_Does Alfred have some particular grudge against doors? Maybe there was a traumatic incident in his youth involving one? Is it just doors, or all furniture? Perhaps he wakes up every night screaming from nightmares about being trapped in IKEA? _

"I really need to go to bed," Matthew muttered aloud. He tugged off his shoes and trudged towards the kitchen to make the necessary small-talk with Arthur, but before he got there his brother's voice from inside the room yelled,

"Your stupid mistakes are going to haunt me for the rest of my life! It's not fair!"

There was a long-suffering sigh, then a voice Matthew recognised as Arthur's replied (slightly more quietly),

"Oh, be quiet, Alfred."

"No! I shouldn't have to put up with some smug bastard smirking at me just because you couldn't resist shagging a teenager!"

"I will not have you talk to me like that! You have no idea what happened. You're too young to understand."

"Too young? How many years older than me was that French prick? One? Two?"

"He was of age! Perhaps I should have said immature, and not young."

"Was it some kind of midlife crisis?"

"Midlife? I'm thirty-eight!"

"Exactly! He could have been your son."

"He was most definitely not my son. And while we're on the subject of paying for other people's mistakes, what about the Harrods incident? I had to pay a ridiculous amount in damages, and my PR woman was working overtime for weeks!"

"That was an accident!"

"An accident? How could tying an American flag around your forehead and jumping on top of an old woman, screaming about the Boston Tea Party, possibly be construed as an accident?"

"I was re-enacting history! She looked like the Queen!"

"I dread to think what would have happened if she hadn't known karate…"

"I had bruises for weeks, and you didn't even care! All you were concerned about was your bloody public image!"

"How dare you? After everything I've done for you! Sometimes I think you will never grow up."

"Maybe that's because the food you give me is absolute shit!"

"My cooking is perfectly fine!"

"I've been to hospital fourteen times with food poisoning! That toast you made killed the neighbour's dog!"

"That was never proved!"

Matthew blinked, and decided that the small talk could wait until tomorrow.

* * *

Gilbert stormed into the house. If he were a cartoon character, there would have been lightning and red wavy lines and cats with their fur on end, but unfortunately he was just a frustrated teenage boy. Probably for the best, actually, because his brother was allergic to cats.

The more he thought about it (and he couldn't stop thinking about it) the more he realised that his day, which he had previously waved off as a success, was actually a complete shambles. Yeah, he'd met an indecently cute boy, but he'd then made a total idiot of himself spitting coffee everywhere, half-admitted to eating faeces, and once again suffered for Francis' insatiable libido. He needed to forget. He needed beer.

Gilbert's father sat calmly in their living room, reading that day's newspaper. He ignored his son's entrance, but sighed as he heard him stomping off into the kitchen. Fireworks were set to go off in three, two, one…

"YOU PUT A PADLOCK ON THE FRIDGE? WHO PUTS A FUCKING PADLOCK ON A KITCHEN APPLIANCE? NO WONDER PEOPLE THINK THAT ALL GERMANS ARE NAZIS!"

The man carefully folded his newspaper, and put it down on the coffee table. His oldest son's face was red, his hair flattened from the rain, and he looked even more angry than usual. "I wouldn't have had to lock the fridge," Gilbert's father said evenly, "If you hadn't drunk every single one of the beers I bought last week. They were imported, and expensive. I cannot afford to maintain your lifestyle."

"Maintain my lifestyle? It was a couple of beers! I'm not picking up hookers and snorting cocaine!"

"The point still stands. When you are hungry or thirsty, ask Ludwig or I for permission to open the fridge, and we will gladly obey."

"You gave Ludwig a fucking key? What, do you think he's more _responsible_ than me or something?"

"Exactly."

If Gilbert hadn't hidden a bottle of vodka under his mattress last week (for emergencies) he would have gone on one of his infamous rampages. Instead, he let out a screech, slammed his way upstairs, and in half an hour was blissfully drunk. Unfortunately, it wasn't helping him forget the day's events. Fortunately, it meant he didn't care about them any more.

"It's just like Romeo and Juliet," he slurred at the stain on his ceiling, "Only instead of the families, there's… Toni and fucking Francis – heh, fucking Francis, cos he fucks everybody – on my side, and… and… thingamabob's brother on the other side…"

He took another swig from the bottle, lost in his own swirling thoughts,

"And eventually… after some fighting and shit… we'll get to shag… oh, but then we'll die… I don't wanna die…Ah hah hah…"

Ludwig looked up from his algebra textbook (there was no work set over the summer, but he liked to keep his mind limber) as a cacophony of noise erupted from his brother's bedroom next door. He couldn't tell if Gilbert was laughing or crying.

He had told Father the padlock idea wouldn't work.

**Thankyou for reading, and don't forget to review! PLEASE! Even if it's just a few words, I'll still be really grateful. **


	5. Of Boredom and Brothers

**AN: Mega long chapter! Well, by my standards at least. I've got 32 reviews so far, and there have been 4 chapters, which is an average of... (quick mental maths here)... 8 reviews per chapter. As this one is so much bigger than the others, I am aiming for 10. So please help make a poor starving writer happy, and review! Okay, the begging's over (for now) so on with the chapter! As always, apologies for any errors, and thanks for reading! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia: Axis Powers characters. Or Tie Rack.**

10.02 am:

Gilbert was woken up at an indecently early hour (by his standards, anyway) by his father banging on his bedroom door. He made a muffled moaning noise from beneath his bedclothes, which was supposed to indicate that he was deep in analytical thought and should not be disturbed at any cost.

Unfortunately, his father seemed to translate it as, "Well, hello, Dad! Come right in, why don't you?"

"Gilbert," the man barked, "Your friend Francis is on the phone." There was no response from his son. Mr Beilschmidt sighed to himself, counted to ten, and yanked the duvet off Gilbert's bed. The albino blinked angrily at him, dressed in nothing but a pair of yellow boxer shorts with his white hair messy from sleep.

"Answer the phone, Gilbert," his father said patiently (he was not a naturally patient man, but seventeen years of dealing with his eldest son had forced him to build up a never-ceasing supply of composure. It was that or murder him brutally with a rolling pin. Sometimes Mr Beilschmidt wondered if he'd chosen the right option) and held out the telephone.

Gilbert took it reluctantly, trying to look righteous and annoyed at the same time. The overall effect, however, was leaning towards constipated.

"He's been asking about the colour of my underwear again," his father called as he left the room. Gilbert stuck his tongue out at the newly closed door and pressed the phone to his ear. "What is it with you and people's Dads, you sick pervert?" he demanded.

"What an enchanting way to greet your friend!" Francis' voice rang out, a little tinny but undeniably huffy, "I was going to invite you out to a new club tonight..." Gilbert's eyes narrowed. He wasn't going to be distracted by mere bribery.

"Why did you have to get off with that boy's father?" he said in what he hoped was a stern, commanding sort of voice.

"You sound like Ludwig," the French teenager muttered. There was a pause, in which Gilbert glared at the receiver as if it had stolen his boyfriend and ran away to Hawaii. "It's a long story," Francis continued, crumbling after a mere minute of pressure.

Gilbert smiled to himself. _I'm so persuasive. I could start a business, and people could pay me to convince other people to do stuff! Like… have sex with them. Or give them money. Or take them to the zoo. Hey, I could persuade people to have sex with __**me**__, and give __**me**__ money, and take __**me**__ to the zoo! Ooh, I wonder if they have ostriches…_

"I **said** it's a long story," Francis repeated, sounding a little ticked off. He gave a sigh; it was low and dramatic, a completely different breed to the quiet, long-suffering noises Gilbert's father was so fond of.

"Cut the crap, Frenchie," the albino told him, lying back down on his pillow, "All that means is you don't have a good excuse."

"I thought… ah, I don't know. I thought that it was time I took an older lover."

"Bullshit."

"Alright, alright. Sacre bleu… He used to come into the coffee shop. Every day, at eleven. And he'd order tea and sometimes a muffin, and sit there looking so lonely until his phone rang, and then he'd rush off again. Anyway, one day I decided that enough was enough, and went and sat at his table. He was… ahah, a little annoyed, but we started talking and… things just continued from there. He's very sweet, once you get to know him."

"He's old!"

"You wouldn't understand. It's far more complicated than a computer game, or a… budgie."

"Gilbird is NOT a budgie!"

"Are you coming to Santos tonight, or not?"

"Santa's? You're going to visit Santa? Doesn't he live in Lapland? That's kind of a long way away. Why are you going to Santa's, anyway; it's July. Oh! Do you want to steal an elf? Are you going to use them to help you pick up dates? I don't know, Frenchie, stealing from Santa seems kind of dodgy…"

"Santos, you imbecile, Santos! It's the name of the club I was telling you about! Mon dieu, vous êtes stupide."

"Just because I don't know what you're saying doesn't mean I can't hate you for it."

"You're like a little child!"

"I'm not like a little child! That's mean! You're the fucking nymphomaniac!"

"Just stop talking. I'll pick you up at half six, and you can come to my house and help me decide what to wear."

"Don'…"

"What was that?"

"Fine."

Gilbert hung up, pouting to himself. Stupid Frenchman… He rolled over, dropping the phone carelessly onto the mattress, and within seconds was asleep. When his father re-entered the room a few minutes later, the telephone receiver was nestled in the crook of his armpit.

Mr Beilschmidt sighed once more.

8.04 am:

Matthew was woken up by Alfred jumping on his bed. This had happened every time they slept in the same country for as long as he could remember. Unfortunately, teenage Alfred was a good deal heavier than five-year-old Alfred had ever been, and his jumping was a little erratic (which basically means that half of the time he missed the bed and bounced onto Matthew's abdomen instead).

Completely oblivious, the taller boy beamed happily at his brother, who was clutching at his stomach and groaning in pain.

"Hey Mattie! Rise and shine! It's a beautiful day! Today I'm going to introduce you to my friends."

_That level of hyperactivity cannot be natural. Maybe he's secretly an additive tester… _Mattie didn't reply, as his windpipe had been somewhat crushed by Alfred's flailing feet, but he managed to make a sort of whimpering noise.

"Great!" Alfred continued, "I'm going to have a shower now, but I think Dad's downstairs…" His grin disappeared, replaced by a sullen look (Matthew guessed he was remembering their argument yesterday) before he patted his brother on the leg and stood up. "Be ready in twenty minutes!" he said, and quickly left the room.

Matthew rubbed at his forehead, then at his throat, and finally at his stomach. He'd had the strangest dream. He was a mermaid (here he blushed, and decided that he must have been a mer_man_, despite the rather attractive seaweed bra he definitely remembered wearing) swimming about in the sea.

That in itself was odd, as his last experience with large amounts of water involved almost drowning. The weirdest part, though, was the huge white fish with the red eyes like rubies that had been gliding along beside him. Something about it had reminded Matthew of that boy from the pool…

The Canadian boy shook his head, as if to clear it, and pushed himself out of bed. A beautiful day, Alfred had said. He crossed to the window- and frowned to himself. Since when did stormy grey skies and pounding rain constitute a "beautiful day"?

11.45 am:

Gilbert stood in front of the Tie Rack store, gently banging his head against the glass display window. It had to be hard enough for the security guards at the shopping centre to notice and lead him away, yet still soft enough to prevent any loss of his precious brain cells. It was a fine line, and he had a ripening bruise on his forehead to prove that he didn't always get it right.

Inside the shop, Antonio was gently running his fingers along a row of silk blend ties, frowning to himself. "Gilbert!" he suddenly called, "Hey, Gilbert! What about this one?" Gilbert opened his eyes. Through the window, he could see Toni holding up a striped red and green tie, looking uncharacteristically serious.

"Looks like a Christmas novelty gift," the albino muttered, "You should talk to Francis. He was going on about Santa this morning…"

Antonio gave the tie one last scrutinising look, then carefully replaced it on the shelf. He strode out through the door, linking his arm through Gilbert's to tug him away. Gilbert shrugged out of his vice-like grip, resignedly noting the determined expression on the Spanish boy's face.

"It has to be perfect!" Toni exclaimed, "Otherwise Lovi will be so sad…"

"Right," Gilbert said, giving his friend a look which suggested his brain capacity was a good deal smaller than most people's (Antonio had been given this particular look so many times in his life that he was actually fairly immune to it, and rarely noticed it any more).

"By 'so sad', you mean he'll kill you in some painful, inventive way, don't you?"

Antonio nodded, eyes already fixed on yet another clothes shop. "Come on," he said urgently, "Little Lovi's birthday is only three days away! That means I have…" -he screwed up his nose for a moment, concentrating, then continued- "…only 95 hours left to get him a present!"

Gilbert glanced somewhat worriedly at the Spanish teenager. "Er, 24 multiplied by 3 is 72…" he told him, then shook his head, "It doesn't matter. I don't think you should call him 'little Lovi', though. No-one who decapitates kittens so often can be nicknamed 'little Lovi'. It's just not right."

"He doesn't decapitate kittens," Antonio murmured. There was a pause, then he continued thoughtfully, "I don't think he does, anyway…"

He ducked into another shop, and Gilbert resumed his position outside.

Why, oh why did he think it was a good idea to go shopping with Toni? He didn't like shopping at the best of times, and this – three days away from Lovino's birthday, combined with the inevitable beginning-of-summer rush – was definitely not the best of times. There must still be some vodka in his system from last night, messing up his decision-making abilities.

8:15 am:

When Matthew entered the kitchen, Arthur was standing at the counter absent-mindedly stirring a cup of tea whilst reading a newspaper. He looked up when his son entered, and gave him his trademark slightly embarrassed half-smile. Matthew returned it sheepishly, and sat down at the table. There was some cereal out, a few bowls and jugs of milk and orange juice.

The Canadian boy wondered if this was an everyday occurrence, or if they had been put out in honour of his visit. At home he and his Mom generally fixed breakfast for themselves, rushing about preparing toast and coffee and tripping over each other's feet. Her sense of timing was awful; every morning she left the house five minutes late, cursing under her breath and leaving a trail of keys, papers and tissues behind her.

Matthew, on the other hand, was rarely late for anything. He glanced at Arthur's back. _Do I get that from him? _He poured himself some cereal and drizzled milk over the top. The tension in the air was as thick as butter.

_I don't know how to behave around him_, Matthew realised, _I don't know him at all. Does he take sugar in his tea? What kind of books does he read? Does he iron his underwear?_

"Do you iron your underwear?" The words had slipped out of his mouth before he could even register what he was saying. Arthur turned around, thick eyebrows pulling together in a frown.

"Pardon, lad?" he said awkwardly. Matthew felt heat rush to his cheeks as he flushed.

"Nothing," he muttered, staring into his cereal. There was a pause.

"No," Arthur said finally, "I hang them out and then fold them." Matthew felt his father's eyes lingering on him for a moment, then he went back to his newspaper.

_Well done, Matthew. The first time you've spoken to him in almost a year, and you ask him about his underwear. I really need to stop my thoughts from pouring out of my mouth! _

"Oh, Matthew," Arthur said as the Canadian boy finished the last of his cereal, "I've made reservations for dinner tonight. The table's booked for seven, and I'm at the office this afternoon, so I'll pick you up at half past six. I'll call you at about six, and come and pick you up wherever you are. Alfred said that he was taking you to see his friends today." There was yet another uneasy pause. "Anyway, have… fun."

Matthew nodded, and watched Arthur stride out of the room.

He turned back to the milk swimming in the bottom of his bowl, and the few dregs of cereal that remained. "It's easy for you," he muttered darkly, "You don't have parents."

_I'm talking to my cereal. No wonder I have problems communicating with real people._

12:28 pm:

"Do you think he'd prefer roses or carnations? The carnations are such pretty colours, but the roses would match his lovely red cheeks. What about lilies? They're nice, aren't they? Ooh, look! What are these? Sunflowers? Maybe I should get him sunflowers, because it's sunny…" Toni babbled happily.

"Kill me now," Gilbert replied cheerfully. With every new plant that his friend mentioned, a little more of his sanity dribbled away. The flower shop was hot and stuffy, with a thousand different sweet scents battling for dominance, and it was giving him a headache.

"Toni," the albino said firmly, "I'm going to get a drink. Please, please do not follow me." The Spanish teenager nodded vacantly. Nothing indicated that he had taken in anything of what Gilbert had just said, but that was fairly common.

It didn't take Gilbert long to find a coffee shop. He sauntered in (because sauntering was so much more awesome than swaggering, and definitely better than sidling), ordered a triple banana-chocolate-toffee milkshake, paid with the fiver he'd nicked from Antonio's pocket while he was wondering which card Lovino would like, and sat down at a table in the corner.

Ah, peace.

12:35 pm:

When Matthew had wondered yesterday if everyone in England was crazy, it had been a flippant remark caused by lack of sleep and general insanity. Now, though, he was seriously considering it. Alfred's friends, at least, were certainly not right in the head.

There was Ivan, an enormous Russian boy with the creepiest smile Matthew had ever been unfortunate enough to encounter. He talked endlessly about wars the Canadian had never even heard of, occasionally breaking out into loud barking laughter for no apparent reason.

Then there was Toris, who was pale and nervous and flinched every time Ivan so much as looked at him, and Feliks, who didn't appear to like Alfred at all. He spent a lot of time pouting, crossing his legs, checking his nail varnish (sparkly cherry red) and whispering to Toris.

Finally came Kiku, a small Japanese boy with shiny black hair. He was polite, but Matthew couldn't work out why on earth he was friends with Alfred. They seemed like polar opposites: Kiku was quiet, Al was loud, Kiku was composed, Al was boisterous, Kiku was cool and still, whereas Alfred had the boundless energy of a puppy.

Matthew ordered cup after cup of coffee, hoping the hot liquid would somehow get rid of the pounding in his head, and sat staring at the walls for most of the morning. Kiku and Alfred were locked in conversation about some new video game, Feliks and Toris were muttering to each other, and Ivan was giggling quietly to himself. Matthew carefully edged his chair a little further away from the Russian boy.

There was a group of teenage girls on the table next to theirs, drinking smoothies and occasionally glancing across at Alfred and his friends, and on the table behind them, a young couple glaring at each other over their tea. And in the corner… "Gilbert?"

12:36 am:

Gilbert looked up sharply as a quiet voice said his name. He'd been having a rather wonderful daydream involving a bouncy castle and a casket of beer, but it could wait. He turned around – and looked straight into the pretty violet eyes of the boy from the pool.

He had remembered that he was cute, of course, and that he had blonde hair, but the details of his face had escaped him. He studied them now, engraving them into his memory. A pointed nose, doe-like eyes, parted lips revealing slightly crooked teeth…

Gilbert suddenly realised that it had been about ten years since Matthew said his name. "Hey, Mattie!" he replied, a little faster than normal. The boy glanced at his companions, then slipped away from his table towards Gilbert.

"Hi," he said, "How long have you been here?" He was blushing, Gilbert realised, a faint pink flush colouring his pale cheeks.

"Three minutes?" Gilbert guessed.

"Oh."

They both stared at each other for a second, then Matthew looked away.

"You didn't call."

"The number came off in the rain."

"Right."

"Do you want to…"

_Go to dinner with me,_ Gilbert finished the sentence in his head, but not out loud. _Wow. _He didn't usually ask people on dates… it was normally more of a club, bed, never-see-you-again sort of situation, much to his father's dismay. Matthew was looking at him questioningly.

"Uh… go swimming?"

Matthew blinked. _This is the same guy, right? It has to be. Unless he has a twin. Or a clone? Maybe it is the same guy, and he's just trying to kill me._

"I can't swim," he said flatly.

"Oh…" Gilbert scratched his head, "…Yeah." There was a pause just long enough to be awkward, then Matthew got to his feet again.

"Um, I should probably be going, my brother-"

"I'll teach you!"

"… Excuse me?"

Gilbert swallowed. _Why on earth did I say that? I can't teach the kid to swim – hang on. Why not? I'd get to see him in just a pair of swimming trunks, and he'd be all grateful and shit. Plus, don't swimming coaches have to touch their students bodies all the time? To show them how to do the strokes or something?_

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that this was a truly awesome idea.

"I'll teach you to swim," he repeated.

"I-" Matthew's cheeks got even redder, if that was possible, "Um… okay. Okay."

Well, it would be useful to learn. Matthew told himself very firmly that the only reason he was at all keen on the idea was for safety reasons.

Britain was an island, after all. He might fall into the sea. It was only sensible to learn how to swim.

A small part of his brain reminded him that the last time he'd seen Gilbert's bare chest up close, he'd been practically unconscious. If he taught him to swim, there would be plenty of opportunities to sneak a glance…

_No_, a more rational part butted in, _This is purely for practical purposes.._

"When?"

"This afternoon?" _Too eager?_

"Um, yeah. Sure. If you're free."

"I'm free."

They exchanged small, secretive smiles.

_Swimming. It can't be that hard, right? Thousands of people can do it. I'll probably pick it up in no time._

**Poor naive Mattie. I must warn you, Alfred's friends aren't likely to be much more than background noise in this story. Sorry! But on the plus side, the next chapter will have a little something for you FrUk fans...**

**Please review! Was this a good chapter or a bad chapter? Emotional or boring? Favourite parts? Any bits you hated? I won't know unless you tell me :) And, of course, reviews may make me more likely to post the next chapter soon. **

**Ah, blackmail.**


	6. Of Fantasies and Failures

**Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far. I reached my target! -Happy dance- Here is chapter 6, in which Gilbert becomes a teacher, the Netherlands becomes a receptionist, and Matthew becomes a nervous wreck. As always, apologies for spelling/grammar errors and overuse of brackets (I really can't help it). Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers. **

Gilbert was no stranger to jealousy. Unlike his stoic brother, the albino felt every emotion so passionately, so intensely, that in his seventeen years he'd covered pretty much the whole spectrum (although there were a few, cough-guilt-cough, that he would vehemently deny having actually experienced). Jealousy was one of the more common ones, though.

He envied the flock of girls and boys who Franny devoted his full attention to, the way Toni could pick up a guitar and strum out a delicate, haunting melody without even thinking about it. He resented Ludwig's height and muscle structure, Feliciano's permanent optimism, even the bastard in the fancy shoes at the bakery last Friday who'd taken the last blueberry muffin. So he couldn't exactly claim that the growl in his throat and the bitter taste in his mouth were unusual. That didn't stop them from being irritating, though.

The tall boy behind the desk in the swimming pool foyer with the spiky blonde hair and the red polo shirt gave Matthew yet another grin, showing off infuriatingly straight white teeth. The receptionist had already spent an indecent amount of time pushing every single leaflet the swimming baths produced into Matthew's arms, even the one advertising the over 50's women's water aerobics sessions ("Just in case", he had said, with a wink that was probably supposed to be cheeky, but in Gilbert's opinion just made it seem like he had some kind of facial tic), not to mention explaining to him in minute detail exactly where to get changed and how to get to the pool.

Matthew, who Gilbert had reluctantly decided must be either naïve or stupid, nodded along and offered that shy little smile, apparently oblivious to the receptionist's horribly obvious flirting. Gilbert coughed, then regretted it when Matthew turned and frowned at him.

"If you need anything, just ask," the man continued, "I'm Lars, by the way." _Need anything? What could Matthew possibly need that would necessitate a fucking receptionist instead of a lifeguard? 'Help, help, I've run out of receipts!' Bloody charmer. What does he think he is, a concierge?_

Gilbert snickered to himself, then stopped quickly when both Mattie and the receptionist gave him looks that suggested he was one pashmina short of a wardrobe. "Are you okay?" the Canadian asked as they walked towards the changing rooms (there was a big sign with a red arrow guiding them, which only served to confirm Gilbert's suspicion that the two maps, intricate directions and helpful pointing finger that Lars had given Matthew were completely unnecessary).

"I'm fine," Gilbert said hastily. They entered the changing area, a large room with a tiled floor, plastic benches and a selection of stains on the walls, one of which resembled the continent of Australasia. Gilbert chose a spot near the stain version of New Zealand and began yanking things out of his rucksack.

"Here," said a voice from beside him, quet but firm. Matthew, shirtless - Gilbert had never realised that anyone's skin could be so pale and smooth – was holding out a packet of cough drops.

"Thanks," Gil said, shoving about eight into his mouth at once to distract himself from staring at Mattie's chest. He suddenly remembered an incident at the beach when he was small, his father's face instructing him sternly never to eat before he went swimming. Little did Gilbert know that today, indigestion would be the least of his worries.

* * *

It wasn't until he got into the pool that Matthew realised what a catastrophically bad idea this had been. Around him were children, parents, teenagers, old people- society, packed into one small space- and every single one of them seemed to be screaming, laughing or splashing water at his face. He shivered, partly from the icy temperature and partly from nerves, and glanced at Gilbert.

The albino was smiling almost proudly, gazing out across the pool with his hands on his hips as if he were the ruler of this strange damp country.

"The most important thing to remember," Gilbert said, and Matthew strained to hear him over the din, "Is not to sink." The Canadian blinked at him. Yes, the albino was handsome, and cool, and funny, and kind, but that piece of advice was quite possibly the worst Matthew had ever been given.

"That's easier said than done," he muttered, and scarlet eyes glanced down at him.

"What did you say?" Gilbert asked, forehead creasing, "It's a bit loud in here. I mean, I like noise as much as the next person, but this takes the piss…" Matthew nodded his agreement, and the older boy suddenly turned to wade back towards the metal ladder that would allow them to exit the water.

"Where are you going?" Matthew called, hurrying after him. Sure, his first impression of the pool wasn't brilliant, but Gilbert didn't seem like the type to give up so easily.

"The smaller pool will be quieter," he said, shaking himself off as he clambered onto relatively dry land, "We'll go there."

* * *

Take two. Matthew stood in the much shallower water, watching a little girl who looked about four execute a steady doggy paddle that took her from one side of the pool to the other. _She's been around for a quarter of the time I have, and her swimming is way better than mine._

His desolate mood was not helped by the water temperature, which was worryingly high. The ratio of children to adults in this pool was about 5:1, and Matthew had a horrible inkling that the warmth wasn't so much to do with heating as it was to do with poor bladder control.

Gilbert had disappeared through one of the doors near the deep end, which the Canadian had a faint idea lead to storage cupboards, and a slightly stronger idea you weren't supposed to enter. He let his fingers trail through the water, leaving tiny ripples on the surface, and tried to ignore his growing sense of anxiety.

"Mattie!" a cheerful voice yelled, "Look what I found!" _What- Are those inflatable arm bands? _Gilbert slipped into the water and rushed towards him, clutching the bright yellow objects triumphantly in his hand. He either missed or ignored the look of horror on Matthew's face.

"This way," Gil explained, pausing to blow a mouthful of air into one of the godforsaken things, "You won't sink! These will keep you afloat, and you can work on, y'know, kicking and stuff."

"But those are for children!" Matthew protested, "They're not even going to fit! Look, I appreciate you doing this for me, but I don't want to embarrass myself-"

Apparently, however, he didn't have a choice in the matter. Gilbert had seized hold of one of his arms and was forcing the now-inflated armband over his wrist, ignoring his futile objections.

"There," he said happily when the swimming aid was squeezing Matthew's upper arm with a vice-like grip, "I knew they'd fit. It's a good job you're skinny! Not that I'd mind if you weren't. I mean, it's your choice, but in this situation, it helps that you're thin. I'm not saying that you're too thin, or anything like that, I just- well, yeah. You get it."

Matthew, who didn't get it at all, stopped struggling and allowed Gilbert to push the second armband on. His resistance wasn't doing any good, and besides, when Gilbert's long fingers brushed against his skin he felt a rush of something hot and thick that had nothing to do with swimming.

* * *

"Just wave your arms about. But in the water. Like this-" Matthew looked desperately at Gilbert, who was flopping his wrists around in the air as if he was a little kid trying to fly.

The younger teenager tried to replicate the motion, but in doing so he forgot to kick his legs (the first lesson in Gilbert's learn-to-swim-the-Prussian-way patented program) and just ended up flailing about rather pathetically. An eight-year-old boy swam smoothly past him, chuckling.

"Maybe it would be better if I held your waist," Gilbert suggested, and a second later a pair of large hands landed on Matthew's skin. He closed his eyes for a moment- surely a simple touch shouldn't actually send shivers up his spine? – then tried again. Somehow, this time his awkward flail actually sort of worked. He moved forward a little, anyway, and his feet hadn't touched the ground yet.

"There you go," Gilbert murmured, and after a moment he released his hold on Matthew's waist. But amazingly, magically, the Canadian continued to moved through the water, inexperienced hands and feet pushing experimentally against the resistance, chin dipping in as his head bobbed.

Just as quickly as it had begun, the moment was gone. Something cold and slimy brushed against Matthew's ankle, and he panicked. "Gil-" he screeched, all knowledge of how to swim dissolving into blind fear.

water rose over his head, and although the pool was shallow enough for him to touch the bottom and push himself to his feet, any shred of calm he had been clutching at was long gone. He scrambled towards the ladder, hands scrabbling desperately at the cool metal- and felt something sharp slice into the soft skin of his foot.

* * *

Gilbert drew back, forcing himself to let go of the soft, soft skin of Matthew's waist, and watched proudly as he struggled forward by himself. It was far from elegant, but he was (technically, at least) swimming. Perhaps today wouldn't end so badly after all.

Mattie would be so pleased that he'd actually managed to swim that he would ask Gil to dinner, to repay him for his valuable teaching, and one thing would lead to another… pretty soon they'd have a house in the suburbs and a son called Fritz, and he would have nice blonde hair like Mattie and-

Gilbert was distracted from his mental musings by a scream from a few feet away. Matthew was thrashing about in the water like an epileptic chicken, and he had absolutely no idea why. A little girl with very long brown hair splaying out around her head was swimming past his feet, but Gil couldn't see why that would cause such a reaction.

_Maybe Mattie knows her? Maybe she's actually a demon, posing as a little girl, and she killed his parents! No, that doesn't work, Franny couldn't have gone out with his dad if he was dead, not even __**he**__'s into that sort of stuff…_

Gilbert watched, taken aback, as Matthew dove towards the ladder. He scrambled up onto the first rung, then some sort of red liquid bloomed into the water around his feet.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Gilbert was forced to accept that jealousy, once a fleeting and occasional emotion, was quickly becoming his most commonly experienced one. He was glad, obviously, that one of the people who worked at the swimming baths had entered the pool area just as Matthew cut his foot on a nail sticking out from the ladder. He was glad that the person had first aid experience, and had quickly lead the teenager to a medical room where his injury was efficiently inspected, cleaned, dried and bandaged. He just wished that person hadn't been bloody Lars…

"Try and stand, if you can," the tall receptionist whispered to Matthew. The lowering of his voice tone made the statement seem more intimate than it actually was, and Gilbert hated him for it. Even worse, Lars _held Matthew's hand_ to help him to his feet, and didn't let go once he was standing.

"I'm fine," Mattie said, surprisingly cheerful once he had calmed down and accepted a complimentary cup of coffee from the staff drinks dispenser. He took an experimental step forward, and to Gilbert's relief didn't collapse in agony. "I should go and get changed, my Dad's coming to pick me up at half past…" Gilbert glanced at the clock above the door. He hadn't realised it was that late.

They made their way rather slowly to the changing rooms, Matthew hobbling a little on his injured foot. Gilbert had an arm round his shoulders, although he wasn't sure if he was helping much. Mattie insisted that he could change by himself, so Gil sent a hasty text to Francis instead, telling him to pick him up at the swimming baths instead of at home.

"So…" Gilbert said awkwardly when they were both fully dressed, "That was… a fucking shambles." Wide violet eyes blinked at him.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked, sounding confused.

"Well," Gilbert raised an eyebrow, "You nearly drowned again, almost chopped your foot off, and got perved at by some old guy."

"What old guy? Do you mean Lars? He wasn't perving at me, he was trying to stop me suing the pool for damages! And yeah, I hurt myself, but it's only a little cut, and didn't you see? I swam! It might have only been for a few seconds, but I did it! This has been… a triumph."

Matthew flushed, a little embarrassed. He may have been a bit over-dramatic there, but the fact remained that he had successfully swam at least half a metre.

Gilbert shook his head slowly to himself. "You're fucking amazing, you know that? Most people would be… crying, or some shit."

Matthew shrugged, smiling a little. "Maybe you just don't know the right kind of people."

They shuffled towards the doors, and out onto the street. It was drizzling, but for once Matthew didn't care. He glanced at Gilbert, whose white hair was still damp. A droplet of water slid down his cheek, and Matthew forced himself to look away. According to his watch, it was 6:31, which meant that Arthur should be arriving any minu-

"Arthur?"

"Who- FRANCIS?"

Right on time.

**I know I didn't deliver on my promise of FrUk, but I assure you that the next chapter will have more than just a taster. So, what did you think of chapter six? Positives? Negatives? Once again, I'm going to beg you for a review.**

**There's one line in this chapter which has been shamelessly stolen from an extremely funny British comedy show called Miranda. Kudos and a virtual cactus to anyone who knows which line it is.**

**Also, I'm having a lot of trouble deciding who to pair Alfred with in this story, and I would be extremely grateful for any suggestions. I'm open to any pairing, so let me know what you would like!**

**Finally (sorry for the far-too-long AN) do you think I should change the genre? Currently it's Romance/General, but I'm not sure if I should change it to Romance/Drama or even Romance/Humor. **

**Thanks again.**


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